this has nothing to do with happiness
by Last Girl Standing
Summary: build a city and call it jerusalem. ― hogwarts winter olympics biathlon. vaguely inspired by richard siken's works. / v. you were drinking sangria and i was throwing oranges at you [pursuit ; charlie / luna]
1. sprint

**title**: this has nothing to do with happiness

**summary**: build a city and call it jerusalem. ― hogwarts winter olympics biathalon. vaguely inspired by richard siken's works. / i. take my body to the holy land [sprint ; victoire centric ; suicidal thought mentions ; agender vic ; second person]

**words**: 517

**characters**: victoire

**competition**: hogwarts winter olympics biathalon.

**notes**: so. i love siken so much i love genderqueer vic so much. give me punk rock victoire.

* * *

_i. take my body to the holy land_

this is not the end.

there's a person, here, who's not a he and not a she, with bubblegum hair cut into a bob and combat boots up to the knee.

people call them 'it', and they respond, "i am not an it. i'm victoire." but people say it, ititit. it like the rain that falls to the ground, collapsing and spattering on the pavement and on their nose, it is the devouring mouth on their neck, the stitched up smile and the clammy fingers wrapping around their wrist and grazing the bones just underneath. it is a wishbone, pulled apart, break the wishbone, make a wish. it is the bridge they stand on, creaking and wooden and they're contemplating jumping off. it is the secret that always gets told, it's the shattered lamp and the heavenly chorus, off tune every time.

they are not an it.

needless to say, you are them and they are you. you are victoire.

you're on a bridge, and the world is swinging, and the wood is screeching.

there is whiskey on your breath, and something tells you to go, to get off of the screaming wooden bridge, but you can't, everything is out of control, and it's raining, it's pouring, and this is england, darling, what else did you expect? it's raining, it's always raining, and the wood is creaking.

you've always been a thrill seeker, the wind in your bubblegum hair, and an hour ago people were singing to you, happy birthday, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear victoire, but everyone was sad because fred is dead and it's may second, fred is dead, it's your seventeenth birthday and you ran to the bridge when it's raining.

calm down. you don't want to die.

you've thought about it, sure, but you're staring death in the eye, and merlin, you don't want to die.

calm down. walk off the bridge.

come back to the bridge on a december night, when you're angry and tired and worn and you're not an it but you've just gotten home from hogwarts, and you're tired. it's snowing, but the river's not quite frozen.

lean on the bridge's ropes, stare at the water. wonder if you'd die on impact, if you'd freeze or drown or hit the currents. tired. you are tired.

calm down.

it is not windy out, barely a breeze, just snow settling on your now blue hair, and you feel at peace with yourself, for a long, long moment.

you turn your head up and swallow snowflakes. pretend its glass, but that's okay, you guess.

muggle poetry in your hand, the half frozen river moving below you, and siken is asking, _do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it?_

victoire does not know, therefore you don't know.

you think of forgiveness and horribleness and of the word it, itititit like a curse, like a horrible mantra, like an unforgivable, almost, but not really.

the bridge sways beneath you.

calm down. get down from that bridge, child. you might fall off.


	2. individual

**title**: this has nothing to do with happiness

**summary**: build a city and call it jerusalem. ― hogwarts winter olympics biathalon. vaguely inspired by richard siken's works. / ii. he doesn't know what to do with his hands [ dean ; individual ; background dean/seamus]

**words**: 511

**characters**: dean, background seamus, ginny and ms. thomas. background ginny/dean and dean/seamus.

**competition**: hogwarts winter olympics biathalon.

**notes**: i was rereading 'unfinished duet' and i just.

* * *

ii. he doesn't know what to do with his hands

dean likes art. he likes charcoal blackening his fingers, likes the pencil on paper. slow, long strokes, short, rapid strokes, anything in between. eraser dust being softly blown off, the watercolor and the brush. he loves the long nights, painting and drawing and erasing, eyebrows scrunched together as all other thoughts disappear from his head.

it wouldn't be a lie to say dean loves art.

it wouldn't be a lie to say he prefers drawing the things he loves, either.

he draws his mother many, many times. he never needed a 'strong masculine role model' growing up; the woman was strong, incredibly so, raising a boy a single mother - a boy with magic, no less. ms. thomas dominates his sketchbook for many years, portraits and moments dean remembers in his mind's eye. she's beautiful; short, which was something her son never inherited, but with a stunner smile, something dean did.

when he gets to hogwarts, he spends more days than not drawing the castle - watercolors, charcoal, pencil, colored pencils. anything dean could grab he used to create its likeness. hogwarts was the most beautiful place he'd ever seen; from the snowy winters, the areas populated with snowpeople and the sun glinting off of the ice of the frozen lake, sending off prisms of lights in its reflections, to the hot late spring, students leaping in the lake or dozing in the shade, often with friends or textbooks.

when they date, dean draws ginny. her red hair wild, easygoing smile and closed eyes, freckles and ink splattered nose. he memorizes her curves and presses them to paper in charcoals, records each freckle in colored pencil, and memorializes her wild locks as she scoped the field in watercolor.

he almost destroys them all when they break up.

he draws seamus more and more over the years, freckles and scorches.

it's mid sixth year when he realizes eighty percent of his current sketchbook is seamus finnegan.

it's two weeks later when he realizes he is _head over heels_ in love with seamus finnegan.

[he nearly slaps himself for not realizing it sooner.]

that night he draws seamus looking smitten. that night, he thinks of seamus looking at him that way.

dean spends his year on the run drawing, drawing hogwarts from memory and seamus from memory. draws his mother. draws and draws until he can't feel his fingers, to keep his fingers busy and to keep his mind busy.

at night, he wonders if seamus is okay.

[he draws a hope for the end of the war, draws a pub with his and seamus' names on the deed in diagon alley. he draws seamus and two little girls.]

[dean gets the boy two weeks after the war, the pub three years later and his two girls a few years after that, using lavender as a surrogate. the dog wasn't really planned - he just happens to be a sucker for puppy dog eyes, and both seamus and fiona have them in trump.]


	3. mass start

**title**: this has nothing to do with happiness

**summary**: build a city and call it jerusalem. ― hogwarts winter olympics biathlon. vaguely inspired by richard siken's works. / iii. you're going to die in your best friend's arms [marlene/alice ; mass start ; canonical character death but slight au]

**words**: 534

**characters**: marlene and alice ; marlene/alice

**competition**: hogwarts winter olympics biathlon.

**notes**: well. um. this was heavily inspired by "planet of love", again by siken

* * *

iii. you're going to die in your best friend's arms

one of the first things marlene does after graduating hogwarts is go see a seer. "for shits and giggles," she tells herself, but she's never been a convincing liar.

the seer's place is dimly lit, dark but with a few soft sources of light. there is a heavy scent of perfume and plants settled in the air. marlene coughs harshly as she makes her way into the room, the air thick and warm - like a blanket.

the seer, a stout woman with her dark hair in a bun, gestures for her to sit down across from her. between them is a table, cloaked in long, patterned tablecloth. the shelves are cluttered with things.

the beginning is menial, boring, things, things marlene already knows. it isn't until marlene asks if she'll see the war through that the seer pauses.

there's a long, heavy silence, and then she says, "you're going to die," and she says it with such heavy finality that marlene believes her for a long moment. "you're going to die in your best friend's arms, and with a smile."

marlene stands up, slams some sickles on the counter and disapparates.

[she pretends alice's blue eyes don't linger in her view and she pretends that she doesn't believe the seer]

flash forward.

alice and frank get married, lily and james get married. sirius makes bedroom eyes at remus through both receptions, and marlene wears a blue dress to alice's, where she's the maid of honor, and a green dress to lily's, where she's a bridesmaid with dorcas.

marlene gets horrendously drunk at alice's wedding. she pretends that she isn't jealous of frank, and that night she dreams of alice's blue eyes, soft and wide, golden curls splayed out on the pillow and curled up next to her.

marlene doesn't talk to alice for weeks.

flash forward.

alice and marlene are on a mission for the order together, and they're friends again. alice is pregnant, but alice doesn't know and marlene doesn't know, so they don't mention it.

marlene is making a mad eye impression and alice is giggling, even though they should be on stakeout. no one's shown up for three days.

the loud _crack!_ throws marlene off guard, but in seconds she's got her wand and so does alice, and the next few minutes are a blur.

a curse speeds towards alice, and before she can think marlene kills her death eater and leaps in front of the curse, letting it slam into her. alice kills hers and then grabs marlene.

alice knows the curse. marlene has minutes.

alice's tears are big and wet against marlene's cheeks, and green meets blue as she tilts her face up. alice holds her head in her lap.

"i'm sorry," alice whispers, voice cracking, and another sob breaks out. "i'm _so _sorry."

"don't be," marlene replies, and she smiles because alice can't. "hey, alice?"

"yeah?"

"i love you," she says, and merlin it feels so good to get it off her chest after nearly a decade.

marlene smiles again as alice's eyes widen, and as she drifts off, she thinks, _merlin's balls, the seer was right.__  
_


	4. relay

**title**: this has nothing to do with happiness

**summary**: build a city and call it jerusalem. ― hogwarts winter olympics biathlon. vaguely inspired by richard siken's works. / iv. the dawn breaking the bones of your heart like twigs [lily, hugo, lysander ; background lily/lorcan/lucy ; relay]

**words**: 499

**characters**: hugo, lily & lysander

**competition**: hogwarts winter olympics biathlon ; relay

**notes**: chapter title from "visible world".

* * *

iv. the dawn breaking the bones of your heart like twigs

it's summer, the morning light filtering softly through the window panes as lily curls up on the sofa. her red locks, usually bouncy and clean, lay limply across the green sofa.

she's hardly said a word since she got off the train. harry presses a kiss to her cheek, and she doesn't say a word. minutes after lily is left alone to her thoughts, the floo flares and two boys stumble out, one after another. lily simply arches her brows.

"fuck, ly," hugo swears, brushing himself off. "you arse, i told you to wait a bloody minute."

"and i did!" lysander argues, adjusting his glasses and running his fingers through his hair. the latter reminds her so painfully of lorcan she winces.

"no you didn't!" hugo glares but pulls lysander on to his feet.

"yes i did!"

"nuh uh!"

"yuh huh!"

"liar," hugo says accusingly, pointing his finger and pressing it into lysander's chest.

"don't make me hex you," lysander bites back.

lily clears her throat.

the two boys' heads snap towards her so fast, lily's afraid they got whiplash.

"lily!" hugo straightens his back, then nearly tackles her, grinning in the way he got around his favorite cousin. they end up a tangle of limbs,, hugo clinging to her and lily smiles over his shoulder.

"hey, lils," lysander smiles in his soft, guarded way that lorcan never did, and then waves. lily shoves hugo off her and opens her arms for a hug. lysander complies to her wishes.

apparently, it lingers too long, as hugo clears his throat, pouting at them teasingly. "okay, you two get cozy, i'll sit here.. all on my lonesome.. hugless... loveless..."

"c'mere, you whiny arse," lysander says, and lily thumps him on the back.

"no, i don't want to interrupt your moment. it was very sweet. i may have diabetes now."

lily pushes lysander off of her, and for the first time in days, she's smiling. _really_ smiling, wide and glittery, radiant and beautiful. "what are you two doing here?"

"what, can't we visit our best friend?"

"don't lie to me."

"a little green eyed birdy told me," hugo says. "and a little hazel eyed one told that one -"

"so i'm 'that one' now?"

"hush! that you were very sad lately since the douchebag supreme -"

"- still my twin -"

"still don't care! - cheated on you with lucy. he may have mentioned you were starting to smell." hugo tugged at one lank lock, flaring his nostrils. her brothers were _so_ going to get it.

"what's your point?"

"shower. we're going out."

"what if i had plans?" lily asks, and both boys give her a knowing look. "i'm going, i'm going," she says, rising. as she makes her way down the hall, she hears hugo say, "now, _what did i say about following people in the floo?"_

"boys," she calls sternly, and they burst into laughter in the next room.


	5. pursuit

**title**: this has nothing to do with happiness

**summary**: build a city and call it jerusalem. ― hogwarts winter olympics biathlon. vaguely inspired by richard siken's works. / v. you were drinking sangria and i was throwing oranges at you [pursuit ; charlie / luna]

**words**: 536

**characters**: charlie / luna

**competition**: hogwarts winter olympics biathlon ; pursuit

**notes**: chapter title from "i had a dream about you". vaguely related to something i'll post someday.

* * *

v. you were drinking sangria and i was throwing oranges at you [but it didn't matter]

he gets a year with her. he feels like that's not enough, but she has to leave; she has a world to study, places to go. he doesn't stop her.

[he wants her to stay, oh god he wants her to stay. he's being selfish and horrible but he wants her to stay in romania, just another night, just one more.]

her hair's a mess of soft curls in the wind, pale blonde against her frail skin, her enormous blue eyes staring up at him, and she's hesitating. her five foot three form is completely dwarfed by him, and he wraps her in a tight hug, bending down to put his head on top of hers.

he lets her go.

he doesn't kiss her goodbye.

she disappears from his view, and he goes to sleep.

he dreams of kissing her soft lips, one more time, her cupid's bow lips pulled into a smile as he plunders her mouth like a petty thief. he imagines her eyes widening then fluttering shut, her thin fingers gripping the back of his shirt, tugging him closer as he weaves his hands in her hair.

he imagines picking her up bridal style, pulling her back to the bedroom again, slow and careful. he dreams of her unpacking the next morning, her baubles and research journals, the pictures to be put on the wall, her clothes back in the drawer, the necklace he gave her.

he wakes up in a sweat, breathing heavy. he runs his hand through his red curls and whispers, _"fuck."_

that's the first dream.

the next night he dreams of her in a sun dress, yellow and pale, fluttering around her knees. it looks like the one she wore to bill's wedding. they're in a field, the grass almost to the hem. she's twirling and singing, but he can't quite make out the lyrics. she holds out a hand to him and then pulls him to dance with her, close against her body, smiling whimsically.

"i, uh -" his dream self stutters.

"nargles got your tongue?" she asks, tilting her head. "i think i've got something for that in my bag, if you'd like."

"no - i just don't know how to dance," he explains sheepishly.

"follow my lead!" she grins, and he wakes up. he doesn't remember anything but a sense of want lingering.

he dreams of her in a white dress, simple and long, and when she pulls a lock of hair behind her ear, he sees turnip earrings. he's the most dressed up he might ever be, and he's sweating, and it's a summer day. he's pretty sure his mother is bawling and _just wont stop_ in the audience.

his heart slams as he wakes up, a feeling of loss weighing on his chest, and he calls in sick.

there are other dreams, sex dreams where he mumbles i love you into her neck and explores her skin over and over again, dreams where they're sitting on the porch, drinking and laughing.

six months later, she writes asking if she can stay for awhile.

the answer's a resounding _yes._


End file.
